What She Knows
by Cloverfield
Summary: Riza Hawkeye. Coffee and a question of tigers. Gueststarring Roy and the boys from HQ. One shot.


**DISCLAIMER: **if I owned _FMA_, I would be rich. Judging by the pitiful amount I can lay claim to, I am not rich, and therefore by the power of scientific deduction, it is obvious that I do not own _FMA_. Hooray for science!

**PREFACE:** I have discovered the joy of vignettes. This is another one. Hooray for short, pointless pseudo-drabbles!

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**What She Knows.**

This section of HQ always smells of coffee. Not the cheap, freeze-dried instant coffee that forms the staple of any military-man's liquid diet, but the rich, heady scents of exotic beans, from places far removed, where coffee is an art and not just a source of caffeine.

The coffee is Riza's, and it comes from home.

Only she drinks it- none of the boys dare to sneak it from her desk, where it sits hidden in her drawers, brown paper bag neatly folded.

She drinks coffee not with greedy abandon, as do they, but slowly. Reverently, as though communing with a higher power. Savouring the taste as it rolls over her tongue and coats her teeth with sweet blackness.

Every breath after each sip is a sigh of pleasure; the sound of a woman content with the world.

And, in those few stolen moments, she allows herself a smile, which smoothes over her stern façade like a lover's hand: easily, seductively, secretly.

It is a smile to steal the breath of a man; a Madonna smile, a smile that is, in essence, woman distilled.

For the briefest of moments, the dogs of the military look on that smile in wonder, and see in her the true beauty hidden by her cool efficiency.

Another sigh, and she is at peace.

At least, until Havoc provokes Breda, or Roy sets fire to his latest stack of paperwork.

And then, the boys under her care know fear as the gentle _clink_ of mug to table provokes a terror unlike any other- although the nightmare about the three-hundred pound mime, the clown-faced shark and the spike-lined pit comes awfully close.

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_The woman moves like a tiger._

This idle thought occurred to Roy in one of his many forays into the realm of distraction; it rests with him, hidden behind a childhood memory of the beach in which he wore a large, unbecoming straw sun hat and not much else.

It sprang from an observation of the smooth, oiled way her muscles –compact, dangerous, yet impossibly lean and feminine- move under her skin during combat; of the way her gaze, akin to a hawk, was framed by a feline face. The fine blonde hair that dusts her tawny skin also contributed, as did the shuttered, delineated light that fell on her through blinds half closed one afternoon, casting streaks of shadow across her tanned skin.

And so, the thought emerged, became permanent and now is his and his alone.

Occasionally, this thought will be drawn to the forefront of his mind –through half-hearted love confessions to the various women he has slept with, past recipes for cocktails flambé, and sidestepping the plans for his new uniform policy- and sit behind his eyes, blinking in neon light.

_The woman moves like a tiger_.

It is there now, and he fancies he can see the words –flamingo pink and fluorescent- in the corner of his gaze if he turns his head slightly to the left, and tilts it down three or four inches.

This thought occupies small but important parts of his mind, and as he stares vacantly at the office spread before him, pen dangling loosely in hand, he cannot be blamed for the incomplete state of the paperwork assigned to him.

After all, directly central to his far-seeing gaze the tiger-woman in question sits, tufts of blonde hair fanning out to frame her neat scholars bun, held up only by a tortoiseshell clip.

If she notices his scrutiny, and she most certainly can sense his onyx gaze now sharply focused on her spine, she gives no sign.

Words tremble hesitantly on once smug lips, trapped by his tongue which is suddenly too dry and cumbersome for his normally quick mouth. He knows he cannot voice his observations of the graceful beast within her, nor of the possibility he sees in her taut, lean form.

_Soldier. Friend. Lover?_

Such seditious thoughts are stilled as fast as they arrive, conscious mind and sense of self-preservation stomping them flat and burying them beneath childhood memories of the dentist.

He dares not speak them; no doubt such a thing would anger the tiger in Riza Hawkeye.

He can see his resulting death in her eyes, the swift retribution of gun-scorched flesh and tearing claws.

(The fact that her hands are perfectly manicured with short, blunt nails will not occur to him till much later.)

And so he says nothing.

But the thought stays with him, no less for all his caution.

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She is, unexpectedly, _not_ the last to leave.**She is, unexpectedly, the last to leave. 

Rather, she departs in harmony with him, knowing when those long hours spent toiling unseen should be arrested, knowing the exact moment when she should say "I'm leaving, sir. It's time to call it a night", and knowing his reply before he speaks it.

She knows the surprise that will shudder over him at the news of the late hour, knows the tiredness that will flicker over his face, chased by the resigned repulsion for his work, still unfinished.

Knows he will stand, and with none of the suave charm he oozes when presnt around any others but her, he will offer to escort her home.

She knows he knows that in reality she will escort him, her sharp-eyed watch extending to blanket him outside office hours.

And she knows, oh she _knows,_ the sweetness of the twist of his lips in gratitude.

It will linger, hesitantly, a butterfly on a precipice, before taking flight as soon as they step out of that door.

At which point it will be replaced with his cultivated smugness, replete with his trademark 'I'm better than you' smirk.

Which will remain painted over his features until he reaches her door, where his mask will tremble under the weight of that butterfly-twist of lips; something almost a smile.

Then, to the bass chorus of her other dark-haired, dark-eyed charmer, she will unlock the gate, receive those wet puppy kisses –her only lapse in discipline-, and nod.

And he will leave, to the shell of a building where no doubt another of the many women that cloud his nights awaits.

But not, she knows, his dreams.

Riza Hawkeye, woman or tiger or both, knows this.

She is content with this knowledge, and edges her chair neatly beneath her desk. She lends a careful eye to the paperwork, neatly stapled and signed, ready for processing the next morning.

No clock chimes disapproval of their late night, but the hour is no less ungodly.

Her voice is as quiet and firm as ever.

"I'm leaving, sir. It's time to-"

"Call it a night?"

He is already holding her coat, and he does not falter beneath her scrutiny. There is nothing untoward in his gaze, and pretending not to notice the wisp of charcoal that clings to him, she allows him to shrug her into the heavy oil slicker.

It is not raining, but she takes comfort in that knowledge that should it do so, at least one of them will not be useless.

"Let's go, sir."

He smiles, and the butterfly-twist is stronger than usual; it does not flee from the _click_ of the door shut behind them.

He blinks twice, as if to clear some insistent illusion from his gaze, and takes her arm.

Central HQ is quiet without them.

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**END NOTE: **if anyone can tell me what the heck that was, I would be grateful. I will admit to a fascination with Riza- she pwns Roy, and frankly, she's just awesome .

Reviews always appreciated.


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